And I hope that they'll bring me, in Paradise, To green lanes leafy wi' bough and stem -To a country place in the land o' the skies, And not to the New Jerusalem.
SCYTHE SONG.
Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, Something, still, they say as they pass;What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?
HUSH, AH HUSH, the Scythes are saying, HUSH, AND HEED NOT, AND FALL ASLEEP;HUSH, they say to the grasses swaying, HUSH, they sing to the clover deep!
HUSH - 'tis the lullaby Time is singing -HUSH, AND HEED NOT, FOR ALL THINGS PASS, HUSH, AH HUSH! and the Scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the grass!
PEN AND INK.
Ye wanderers that were my sires, Who read men's fortunes in the hand, Who voyaged with your smithy fires From waste to waste across the land, Why did you leave for garth and town Your life by heath and river's brink, Why lay your gipsy freedom down And doom your child to Pen and Ink?
You wearied of the wild-wood meal That crowned, or failed to crown, the day;Too honest or too tame to steal You broke into the beaten way;Plied loom or awl like other men, And learned to love the guineas' chink -Oh, recreant sires, who doomed me then To earn so few - with Pen and Ink!
Where it hath fallen the tree must lie.
'Tis over late for ME to roam, Yet the caged bird who hears the cry Of his wild fellows fleeting home, May feel no sharper pang than mine, Who seem to hear, whene'er I think, Spate in the stream, and wind in pine, Call me to quit dull Pen and Ink.
For then the spirit wandering, That slept within the blood, awakes;For then the summer and the spring I fain would meet by streams and lakes;But ah, my Birthright long is sold, But custom chains me, link on link, And I must get me, as of old, Back to my tools, to Pen and Ink.
A DREAM.
Why will you haunt my sleep?
You know it may not be, The grave is wide and deep, That sunders you and me;In bitter dreams we reap The sorrow we have sown, And I would I were asleep, Forgotten and alone!
We knew and did not know, We saw and did not see, The nets that long ago Fate wove for you and me;The cruel nets that keep The birds that sob and moan, And I would we were asleep, Forgotten and alone!
THE SINGING ROSE.
'La Rose qui chante et l'herbe qui egare.'
White Rose on the grey garden wall, Where now no night-wind whispereth, Call to the far-off flowers, and call With murmured breath and musical Till all the Roses hear, and all Sing to my Love what the White Rose saith.
White Rose on the grey garden wall That long ago we sung!
Again you come at Summer's call, -
Again beneath my windows all With trellised flowers is hung, With clusters of the roses white Like fragrant stars in a green night.
Once more I hear the sister towers Each unto each reply, The bloom is on those limes of ours, The weak wind shakes the bloom in showers, Snow from a cloudless sky;There is no change this happy day Within the College Gardens grey!
St. Mary's, Merton, Magdalen - still Their sweet bells chime and swing, The old years answer them, and thrill A wintry heart against its will With memories of the Spring -That Spring we sought the gardens through For flowers which ne'er in gardens grew!
For we, beside our nurse's knee, In fairy tales had heard Of that strange Rose which blossoms free On boughs of an enchanted tree, And sings like any bird!
And of the weed beside the way That leadeth lovers' steps astray!
In vain we sought the Singing Rose Whereof old legends tell, Alas, we found it not mid those Within the grey old College close, That budded, flowered, and fell, -We found that herb called 'Wandering'
And meet no more, no more in Spring!
Yes, unawares the unhappy grass That leadeth steps astray, We trod, and so it came to pass That never more we twain, alas, Shall walk the self-same way.
And each must deem, though neither knows, That NEITHER found the Singing Rose!
A REVIEW IN RHYME.
A little of Horace, a little of Prior, A sketch of a Milkmaid, a lay of the Squire -These, these are 'on draught' 'At the Sign of the Lyre!'
A child in Blue Ribbons that sings to herself, A talk of the Books on the Sheraton shelf, A sword of the Stuarts, a wig of the Guelph,A LAI, a PANTOUM, a BALLADE, a RONDEAU, A pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau, And the chimes of the rhymes that sing sweet as they go,A fan, and a folio, a ringlet, a glove, 'Neath a dance by Laguerre on the ceiling above, And a dream of the days when the bard was in love,A scent of dead roses, a glance at a pun, A toss of old powder, a glint of the sun, They meet in the volume that Dobson has done!
If there's more that the heart of a man can desire, He may search, in his Swinburne, for fury and fire;If he's wise - he'll alight 'At the Sign of the Lyre!'
COLINETTE.
For a sketch by Mr. G. Leslie, R.A.
France your country, as we know;
Room enough for guessing yet, What lips now or long ago, Kissed and named you - Colinette.
In what fields from sea to sea, By what stream your home was set, Loire or Seine was glad of thee, Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?
Did you stand with maidens ten, Fairer maids were never seen, When the young king and his men Passed among the orchards green?
Nay, old ballads have a note Mournful, we would fain forget;No such sad old air should float Round your young brows, Colinette.
Say, did Ronsard sing to you, Shepherdess, to lull his pain, When the court went wandering through Rose pleasances of Touraine?
Ronsard and his famous Rose Long are dust the breezes fret;You, within the garden close, You are blooming, Colinette.
Have I seen you proud and gay, With a patched and perfumed beau, Dancing through the summer day, Misty summer of Watteau?
Nay, so sweet a maid as you Never walked a minuet With the splendid courtly crew;Nay, forgive me, Colinette.
Not from Greuze's canvases Do you cast a glance, a smile;You are not as one of these, Yours is beauty without guile.
Round your maiden brows and hair Maidenhood and Childhood met Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair, New art's blossom, Colinette.
